


Yes, Homo

by Amuly



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Domestic Bliss, Domestic Fluff, Eddie Kaspbrak Lives, Homophobic Language, M/M, Minor Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Social Media, Stanley Uris Lives
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-12
Updated: 2019-11-12
Packaged: 2021-01-29 09:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21407644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: The Losers all know Richie and Eddie are the best of friends. So it's not so weird to Stan that Eddie moves in with Richie after his acrimonious divorce. And Bev doesn't raise an eyebrow to all the ridiculous dog co-parenting gags Richie plasters his social media with. Mike thinks Eddie's bedroom in the apartment him and Richie share is pretty spartan, but he'd just moved in a few months ago, and Eddie was kind of like that, anyway. Bill thinks Richie's new act is funny as hell, especially all those gags about how him and Eddie are a "couple." And when it comes time for Ben and Bev's wedding, Ben sends Richie and Eddie separate invites, so those two wild bachelors can each bring their own plus-ones.Or, Five Times the Losers Thought Richie and Eddie Were "Just Friends"... and One Time They Didn't
Relationships: Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 318
Kudos: 2854
Collections: It Faves, fuk my heart agghhh





	Yes, Homo

STAN

#And They Were Roommates

Stan sat with his arm around Patricia’s shoulders on the couch, both of them smiling genially at Eddie’s harried but happy-by-his-standards face on their living room flat screen. He was talking a mile a minute about this and that work thing, and gossip about the other Losers, and hey, did you catch Richie’s new show? The YouTube link he sent around the group chat? It’s actually some pretty good shit, he’s finally writing his own damn material, and it’s fits and starts, you know, but getting good.

Patricia finally managed to get a word in edgeways, which wasn’t something Stan even really tried, anymore.

“Eddie, Eddie! Where are you? You didn’t mention that you were traveling?”

Eddie’s motormouth froze, eyes darting around the room he was in. Stan realized, belatedly, that Patricia was right: it _wasn’t_ Eddie’s home office, or work office (he pretty much never called them from his living room, and definitely not his bedroom. Myra wasn’t… very inclusive of his friends. Not like Patricia, at least. Most of the time Stan felt kinda sorry for the guy, being married to her, even if that was a shitty thing to think. Stan supposed she must have some redeeming qualities, for Eddie to have married her).

In fact, now that Patricia pointed it out, Stan realized that the room he could see behind Eddie looked like a hotel room. Maybe he was traveling for work? But Eddie was casting his eyes around, mouth turned down hard. He sighed and scratched a hand carefully through his hair, keeping it raked neatly backwards.

“Yeah, uh… Look, I was going to say something, didn’t want to put it in the chat, you know. So… Myra and I split. Getting a divorce.”

Stan made all the appropriate noises, and so did Patricia, but the glance they shared was faintly triumphant. Eddie and Myra were _not_ good together. Eddie was a pain in the ass and a little shit, sure, but he deserved to be with someone he actually got along with, and Myra never appeared to be that person.

Not to mention she was nearly pathologically controlling, and that left a bad taste in Stan’s mouth. There was no trust in their relationship, as far as he could tell, and if you didn’t have that, what the hell _did_ you have?

Eddie rolled his eyes and tugged at his earlobe. “Yeah, thanks guys. You sound really convincing.”

“Hey, no, it sucks,” Stan put in. “It’s a shitty thing to have to go through, no matter what. Splitting up, starting over…”

Eddie gestured sarcastically around at the hotel room behind him. “Oh, but look at the perks! Sad divorced-dads motels. I moved in here this week and I’ve already seen five supervised CPS visits, I swear.”

Patricia winced. “You’ll find a new place soon enough.”

“Do you need any help?” Stan offered. He meant financially, because it’s not like he could help with apartment hunting from Atlanta.

“Nah, Richie’s in town this weekend, we were going to do something…” Eddie trailed off, looking at his phone. He smiled at whatever was on there.

“Oh, does he have a show?” Patricia asked.

Eddie frowned up at them in his laptop, like he didn’t understand the question. “What? No, he’s just. Helping.”

Stan snorted. Richie must be procrastinating working on his new material, or avoiding some insistent exes or something, if he was flying out to New York just to dick around apartment hunting with Eddie.

“Have you really thought this through?” Stan pointed out. Eddie looked so offended he rushed on: “Not the divorce, I mean. Letting Richie help.”

Eddie laughed and shook his head. “Oh. Nah, I mean. At least there’ll be someone around for me to swear at, in lieu of taking it all out on Myra, you know. I’m trying to get through this divorce with my IRAs intact.”

That actually kind of made sense. Richie would be a great focus for all Eddie’s frustrations. And he’d bring it out of Eddie, too. Eddie couldn’t be around Richie for a half hour without exploding. It was really the perfect release.

“Alright, well, if you need help from the help, just let us know,” Stan told him.

After they’d hung up and were making their way to bed, Patricia commented from their master bathroom: “It’s nice Eddie is going to have Richie around during this.”

Stan agreed as he changed into his PJs.

But Patricia apparently wasn’t done. She peered out from the bathroom as she patted cream onto her face. “It’s very generous of him though, isn’t it? To fly out to New York just because?”

Stan shrugged. “Richie’s got money to burn. Shitty lowest-common-denominator humor apparently pays pretty fucking well.”

Patricia raised her eyebrows, or maybe that was just part of her moisturizing procedure. “Still.”

That was honestly the least unusual thing Eddie had told them this evening. Stan never really thought he’d get a divorce from his wife, even after they all survived Neibolt house and killed that fucking clown. Given that bit of improbability, Richie swanning into town to distract Eddie and give him an outlet for all the frustration he was probably experiencing thanks to the impending divorce was the least unusual part of it all. That’s the sort of shit Richie did for Eddie.

The thought did flicker across Stan’s mind, just briefly, if he’d expect Richie to do the same for any of the rest of them. Or, for that matter, for any of the rest of them to do so. Richie was freer than the rest of them, financially and schedule-wise, to do stuff like that, so he supposed it wasn’t odd that he couldn’t think of another one of them who would do the same.

And then Patricia was climbing into bed and smiling at him and Stan stopped thinking about Richie’s over-the-top generosity to Eddie.

The way Eddie had looked at his phone did come back to Stan’s mind’s eye a few days later, though, and he wasn’t sure why.

* * *

The way Eddie told them all about his relocation to Chicago was by sending them _letters_ in the _mail_ with his change of address. Stan would have laughed about it if he wasn’t busy whipping out his phone and pulling up Richie’s contact card.

Yeah, same address. Stan laughed and called Eddie up.

“What, so you get a new job in Chicago and figure ‘fuck apartment hunting, I got an in?’”

Stan could _hear_ Eddie’s eyeroll over the phone.

“Look, I know it’s sudden, but it just makes sense…”

“Hey: I get it,” Stan assured him. “Big life changes, you know. Might as well cram them all in at once.”

“That’s what she said,” Eddie mumbled, then snorted to himself. Stan groaned.

“Never mind, bad idea, Richie’s already rubbing off on you.”

“That’s-”

“Is that Stan?”

Richie’s voice floated down the line. Stan grinned.

“Tell Stan: _that’s what he said!_”

Stan glared. Terrible, he had the worst friends. For fuck’s sake, wasn’t Richie a _professional_ comedian? You think his material would be better.

“Personally I’m amazed Richie’s bathroom met your standards,” Stan said.

“Oh, trust me, it didn’t. In fact, nothing in this apartment did, it’s disgusting, I’m moving out next week.” Eddie pitched his voice loud for the last bit, clearly making sure Richie heard it.

“_Edddieeeee_,” Richie whined. The quality of the background noise changed, and Stan figured he’d just been put on speaker. Richie’s voice crowded closer to the phone. “Stan, you see what I have to put up with? This is fucking spousal abuse.”

“_Spousal-_!” Eddie spluttered.

“Shh, babe, not now, we can talk about it next week when I propose.”

Eddie’s nervous giggle made Stan smile. It was good to hear Eddie joking around and relaxed after the month or so from hell he’d had since separating from Myra. Richie, annoying little shit that he could be, was kind of the perfect distraction from life when it went that way. 

“What about you, Richie?” Stan asked. “How’s living with Eddie treating you?”

“Well, he’s a pain in my ass…”

“Richie…”

“And I don’t mean figuratively! BADUM-TISH!”

“You can’t do your own _snare_, you hack.”

“Don’t tell me how to do comedy. Which one of us is the professional comedian, huh, and which one of us is an insurance salesman?”

“Um actually neither of us is an insurance salesman-”

“Eddie, Eddie, my love: shhhh.”

Stan cut in: “So basically you’re driving each other crazy?”

“Completely,” Eddie agreed at the same time as Richie shouted: “Damn _right_ we are!”

“It’s not as bad as you might think,” Eddie admitted. Stan could hear Richie _aww_ing in the background. “Our schedules are pretty flipped, with Richie working nights and weekends and me working normal human hours, so we’re not around each other enough to get on each other’s nerves. Most the time.”

“And Eddie taught me how to use a mop!” Richie piped up.

There was a pause, at which point Eddie explained: “He didn’t know you had to clean it. He… He didn’t know, Stan.”

Stan laughed hard, hand to his mouth.

“And Chicago’s actually pretty nice, this time of year,” Eddie admitted. “I’m letting Richie drag me around to all the must-sees, playing tourist.”

“Most of my must-sees are bars and comedy clubs,” Richie admitted. “But now with Eds here we’re doing the whole ‘oh hey I’ve been _meaning_ to go see that but never bothered since I live here but since you’re from out of town…’ thing.”

“Atlas Obscura is our friend,” Eddie said.

“Eddie still won’t go to the shit fountain,” Richie complained.

“That is the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever seen,” Eddie told him, tone that of an old argument. “It’s a fountain with a bronze statue of a pile of shit,” Eddie said into the phone. “Like the poop emoji.”

“You know that’s actually supposed to be chocolate ice cream,” Richie told him.

“What? No. It’s poop.”

“No, it’s ice cream.”

“Why isn’t it in a cone?”

“I don’t know; ask the Japanese. But it’s chocolate ice cream.”

“It _so_ is not.”

“Uh, it _so_ is, Eddie. I’ll bet you a hundred bucks it’s ice cream.”

“I’ll bet you a rimjob it’s shit.”

“Well boy howdy, speaking of shit…”

Stan groaned. Nasty. Clearly Richie really was ‘rubbing off’ on Eddie—though Stan wasn’t going to make the mistake of saying that out loud again.

“_What_?!” Eddie’s voice screeched.

“Ha! I’m going to take a shower and spread out on the bed. See you in a few, lover!”

“Ugh. Scrub hard, fuckface.”

“Never do.”

“Outside _and_ inside!” Eddie voice pitched louder. After a moment the quality of the background noise changed and Stan assumed Eddie had just taken him off speaker.

“He really not driving you crazy yet?” Stan asked.

Stan could practically hear the smile in Eddie’s voice when he replied, which was better than any words: “Actually… no? It’s. It’s really going well. Shockingly well.”

“Hey: you can’t assess the risk of everything beforehand.”

Eddie huffed a laugh. “Yeah, seriously, talk about not taking your own advice. Every calculation in the world would have told me not to do this, and now I’m here, and…”

Stan smiled at the happiness in Eddie’s tone.

“Well, hey: mazel tov.”

“Lechaim.”

“That doesn’t make any sense, Eddie.”

“Well clearly you were a bad representative for the Jews because that’s all I remember.”

“No I definitely taught all of you full Hebrew, it’s just the evil fucking clown took your memories of it, damn.”

“Yeah sure, whatever you gotta tell the rabbi.”

“Hey Eddie: take care.”

“I… actually think Richie’s got that covered? But thanks.”

“Will wonders never cease?”

* * *

Of course everyone had seen the pictures of Penelope (“Her name is _not_ Penny, stop calling her f***ing Penny on here, Richie!” @eddie.kaspbrak had written under _many_ of Richie’s _incessant_ photos of the ball of fluff they claimed had a dog inside it somewhere) before they got Eddie’s letter in the mail. But that didn’t stop Stan from doubling over in laughter, tears streaming down his cheeks, when he opened up a letter from “Edward Kaspbrak and Richard Tozier” (if the return address label was to be believed) which turned out to contain an _adoption announcement_ for the aforementioned ball of fluff masquerading as a dog.

Stan took a picture of the adoption announcement and sent it to Richie in a private text (he considered sending it to the group chat but didn’t want to spoil anyone else’s surprise of coming home and opening _that_ letter themselves).

_You need to control your husband. Did you approve of this nonsense?_

Seconds later Richie’s response flashed across Stan’s screen:

_approve? he demanded my input on the font choice_

It was a terrible fucking font. Ridiculously curly and loopy, like the most garish wedding announcement. In Victorian England. Yeah, that had Richie’s fingerprints all over it, now that he mentioned it.

_What am I supposed to do with this?_ Stan asked, flipping the announcement over. It didn’t say anything except what was splashed across the front

_Do you guys want, like: baby shower presents? Do me and Pat need to buy the furry monster a stroller?_

_eds already bought 1. AAA safety rated and can safely navigate up 2 a foot of snow_

_Calling bullshit_

_youd b surprised_

Three hours later, Patricia was scrolling through Instagram while they ate dinner and started laughing so hard she started choking and had to swallow half a glass of water. She slid her phone across the table at Stan as she caught her breath back.

Penny, or at least, a circle of fur with an open mouth and a tongue lolling out of the center of it, was being pushed in her stroller by Eddie down the streets of Chicago. He was scowling at the camera, face turning red.

“The park is six blocks away, what the fuck do you expect me to do! She can’t _walk_ that far, Richie, she’s a fucking puppy! Her feet are three inches long, it would take her sixty-three _thousand_ steps to walk that far, Richie!”

“Tell the people how you know that, Eddie,” Richie’s voice floated from behind the camera.

Eddie’s face was tomato red.

Calmly—so calm Stan actually worried for Richie’s physical well-being, Eddie hissed:

“Because I can do basic arithmetic, Tozier.”

The camera spun around to capture half of Richie’s grinning face. “Love of my fucking life, right there.”

When the camera spun back around it was to press in close to Penelope. Stan did catch a glimpse of Eddie’s expression, though, and some of the anger had bled out of it to be replaced by exasperated fondness. Par for the course, dealing with Richie. Penelope mugged for the camera, mouth open and panting excitedly.

“Do you love going to the park? Do you? Yes you do, sweetheart. Yes you do.”

It went on like that. Stan shook his head and passed her phone back to Patricia, who had mostly recovered in the interim.

“Well, at least Eddie looks happy,” Stan observed. Patricia nodded, smiling.

“He does. Doesn’t look like a man two months into an acrimonious divorce.”

Stan nodded. “Richie’s good for him, keeping his mind off it. Even if it’s by annoying the ever-loving shit out of him.”

“Were they like this as kids?”

Stan groaned. “This and a thousand times worse. All they ever did was scream at each other. Well: Eddie did all the screaming. Richie did the pushing-all-his-buttons-ing.”

Patricia smiled, chin in her hand. “You should tell more stories about them. Now that you remember.”

Stan sighed, shaking his head. “And relive a childhood of playing exasperated third-wheel to the Eddie-and-Richie double act?”

“I bet they were adorable.”

“Yeah, adorable like a kitten fighting a puppy,” Stan conceded. Which, actually: was pretty adorable. But that was Tozier and Kaspbrak for you. Cute enough from a distance, annoying as hell up close. It made sense they’d live together; and yet at the same time, Stan wasn’t sure how they’d make it a month without killing each other.

BEV

#Public Displays of Affection

Bev cooed and double tapped on the fiftieth photo of Penny on Richie’s Instagram feed that day. Then she held out her phone to Ben, who was working on his laptop in bed beside her. He glanced over before rolling his eyes.

“They all look the same,” Ben said.

“Racist,” Bev hissed.

“It’s the same dog! It literally _is_ the same!” Ben defended himself.

“You have to read the captions, too,” Bev tried to explain, for the hundredth time. Richie was going full-in on this dog-dad bit and it was all kinds of hilarious. There was the standard stuff, sure: the over-investment in the dog with things like strollers and more toys than it could play with in a thousand lifetimes and home-cooked meals three times a day. But he took it to the next level, of course. He would write long screeds about how they were shopping for pre-schools but the waiting lists were so _long_ and they were trying to get her on a waiting list but by the time she got into one three years from now she’d be twenty-one and what were they supposed to do, take her out drinking to celebrate her first day of pre-school?

“Look at this one!” Bev cooed. She shoved the phone under Ben’s nose. He sighed and looked.

“Is… Is she in a raincoat?”

“With a hat!” Bev exclaimed. She double tapped to like, then scrolled down to leave a comment.

_OMG! She’s the cutest!_

A few minutes later a notification popped up that @eddie.kaspbrak replied to her:

_It’s easier than blow-drying her every time it rains. Do you know how much it rains in Chicago?_

Of course Richie had already replied:

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _not every1 blowdries their dog, eds_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _What the fuck am I supposed to do, leave her shivering and wet?_

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _careful, ill report u 4 cussing @ me. cyberbully!_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _Fuck you._

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _abuser! cyberabuser!_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you fuck you_

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _did you type all those out or did you type the 1st 1 then stop, copy it, then paste for the rest_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _Seriously, fuck you._

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _i knew it_

Ben was looking over her shoulder as she laughed at their bickering in the comments of Richie’s Instagram page. He shook his head.

“Do you think they sit on opposite sides of the couch while they type all that shit?”

“Probably,” Bev agreed. She checked her watch. “Actually… Richie might have a show tonight. It’s a Friday.”

“Maybe Eddie’s in the audience,” Ben joked. “And Richie’s backstage arguing with him on Instagram.”

“I could _definitely_ see that,” Bev agreed. She cocked her head. “Well… except for the part where Eddie is in the audience for Richie’s show. You don’t think he goes, does he?”

“Probably sometimes, sure,” Ben said with a shrug.

“He must use the same material more than once, right?” Bev mused.

“He does multiple shows a week, I’m sure he’s not coming up with new material every day.”

“I think he said it’s like workshopping, going out to these clubs. He tries out different bits, cuts, adds, figures out what works and what doesn’t, you know.”

“So same-with-differences,” Ben said.

Bev shrugged. “Something like that, I think.”

“Then Eddie’s probably not at the show,” Ben pointed out, reasonably. “No way he sits through Richie Tozier repeating the same joke over and over again, night in, night out.”

The next morning over breakfast Bev was scrolling through her Instagram feed and had to stop and laugh at a picture from Eddie. It was mostly his face, taking up 80% of the screen, but then in the background you could see Richie performing on stage. Eddie’s face was drawn down seriously into an I-am-not-amused expression and the caption read “This guy sucks, how do I get my money back?”

Richie had already replied, of course: _usually u have 2 complain 2 the manager, but i can think of a special offer 4 u, hot stuff._

Bev snorted and took a screenshot of the picture for Ben. _Guess Richie was trying out some new material tonight_.

Ben texted her back a while later—he had an early morning meeting, she thought she remembered him mentioning—_It’s a good thing your shows are only quarterly_.

Which reminded her… Bev groaned and put her phone away. Yeah, she needed to get back to work.

* * *

Eddie really was adorable when he was asleep, Bev had to give Richie that. His face was all relaxed out of its usual angry lines and he looked like he did when they were kids, all baby soft and wild-haired (on the rare occasion that the Losers could get him in enough trouble to mess up his hair, that is).

She just wasn’t sure how the hell Richie was getting these photos without Eddie knowing. She kind of expected Eddie to be one of those sleeps-with-the-bedroom-door-locked people.

Of course, it was Richie’s apartment. He probably just jimmied the lock and let himself in.

Bev snorted at the caption—_he looks so peaceful…wat a fucking liar_—and then rolled her eyes at all the homophobic shit Richie was getting in response.

_Fag_

_-thought you were cool-_

_-never paying for a show again-_

_-burning my tickets-_

_-just threw up in my mouth-_

_Faggot_

_Fudgepacker_

Bev felt her stomach twist in righteous anger on behalf of the LGBT community.

Of course Richie was roasting them like there was no tomorrow.

-_hey you know if u buy more tickets to my show u can burn even more? here’s a link, show me how much u hate my gay ass! speaking of my gay ass: i can only say this bc Es asleep, but his personal hygiene is meticulous-_

_-fucking disgusting-_

_-burn in hell-_

_-E happens 2 pack the BEST fudge, hes a fucking dream in the kitchen, and its all kinds of health bullshit that he manages 2 make taste good, 2-_

_Lol gross dude_

_listen if that hack chrissy tiegan gets 2 post sappy stories of her husband and children then u all get 2 suffer thru video of my two hellions bc a) were way better looking_

_In your fucking dreams, dude_

_fair. and b) im way funnier than she is_

_Debatable_

_Well that’s just rude._

Ben stirred in bed next to her, rolling over to snuggle against her side. Bev sighed and set her phone down, curling up against him.

“What’re you doing? You working?” Ben mumbled into her breast.

“Not hardly. Spying on Richie’s Instagram feed.”

“Not more of that fucking dog.”

“No, he’s doing some kind of bit where Eddie’s his boyfriend. Was livestreaming him drooling on a pillow.”

“Was Eddie asleep?”

“Looked like.”

Ben snorted, eyes still firmly closed. “He’s going to kill Richie when he sees that.”

“I don’t think Eddie knows how to check the Instagram stories,” Bev thought out loud.

“You know he checks Richie’s. Just for shenanigans like that.”

Bev snorted. “Shenanigans?”

Ben cracked an eye open to look up at her. “It’s a word.”

Bev leaned down and kissed him sweetly on the forehead. Ben smiled like his world was bathed in soft morning light.

Eddie did have an Instagram, and he _did_ seem mostly to use it to creep on Richie’s Instagram. At first. His page had been almost completely blank before. Now it was filled to the brim with pictures of Penelope and other dog-parent adverts and signal-boosts. Lost dogs, consumer warnings (Bev had no _idea_ how often pet food got recalled. That couldn’t be right, could it? Ed had to be overly paranoid about these things, right?) and, to everyone’s surprise but especially Richie’s, long screeds extolling the virtues of CBD oil. For dogs. Bev flipped over to it to see if she missed anything overnight.

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _40 yrs of trying to get this dick 2 smoke pot w me and he STILL wont but hell give it to r TODDLER_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _First of all she’s a fucking dog not a fucking toddler. Second of all, check your reading comprehension: it’s CBD, NOT pot._

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _im not customs E stop lying 2 me_

@eddie.kaspbrak: _Get off my fucking page_

@OfTheNewportTrashmouths: _i just love this man SO MUCH_

Bev snorted and “liked” their string of comments before setting her phone down and cuddling up with Ben. He demonstrated his approval of her change of activity enthusiastically.

* * *

Bev was already at the office—early fucking morning, this fall line was going to kill her—when she had a half minute to scroll through Instagram on the toilet. The LIVE icon was at the top of the stories for Richie’s Instagram and she hurriedly clicked on it. The sound was on, but whatever, it was six thirty in the morning, no one else was in the bathroom with her. No one else was in the damn building with her.

“-what you’re putting in now.”

“It’s her probiotic powder.”

“Uh-huh,” Richie said. The camera was pointed on Eddie, standing at their kitchen counter in a worn-out t-shirt and sweatpants (it looked like one of Richie’s t-shirts, judging by how large it was on him. Bev wrinkled up her nose at their domesticity. Eddie probably did their laundry for the both of them and stole whatever he wanted as payment. Even though Richie was a forty-year-old grown-ass man, Bev somehow couldn’t picture him doing laundry, ever). On the counter in front of Eddie was a little metal dog bowl, which was itself nearly obscured by an assortment of sundry items. At the moment, Eddie was scooping a little bit of yellow-ish powder out of a Tupperware labeled “probiotic” and dusting it into the food bowl.

“And what’s that for, exactly?” Richie prompted.

The _look_ Eddie sent him. Bev felt her metaphorical balls shrivel. It was astonishing that Richie was able to keep filming through that visual assault.

“It’s to regulate her gut bacteria.”

Richie’s voice got uncomfortably close to the phone mic: “It’s so her shits are nice and firm.”

Eddie’s lips were a line so thin they were practically invisible. He had moved onto a big bottle with a pump, which he pumped once into the bowl.

“And what’s that?”

“Fish oil,” Eddie grumbled out.

“Which is…”

“For her coat,” Eddie sighed. He shot another glance at the camera. “Are you really going to do this for the whole thing?”

“This is the content my fans are _demanding_ to see, Eds,” Richie apologized, unapologetically. “What am I supposed to do: _deny_ my _fans_? Oh hey! Bev’s watching! Hi Bev!”

Eddie glanced over at that, expression smoothing out just a hair. “Hey, Bev,” Eddie said. “What are you doing up?”

Bev quickly typed _I’m an hour ahead of you, dorks. What are YOU doing up_?

Richie dutifully read her reply out loud, even as the chat filled with fans shouting to be noticed. Eddie snorted, even as he grabbed for a paring knife and started cutting something.

“This is when I usually wake up. I have to take Penelope for her walk after breakfast, and then shower, get ready…”

“Eds, Eddie, focus up! What are you doing now?”

“I’m going to fucking kill you, I will, they’ll find beloved comedian Richard Tozier dead in his bed…”

“_Eeeeedsssss_…”

“It’s her heartguard,” Eddie explained, if only to get Richie to shut up and stop whining. “I have to cut it in quarters and spread it out over four meals or she’ll get a stomachache. This one is only once a month.”

“Someone wants to know what’s the probiotic you use.”

Eddie rattled off the name of an Instagram handle—some friend of a friend who made custom breed-specific blends. Richie turned the camera to face him and whispered into it: “_Dog moms_.”

“I fucking heard that,” Eddie snapped. He pulled something out of a ziplock bag and started snapping it into pieces.

“Eddie…”

“It’s her cosequin,” Eddie explained with a sigh. “Joint health, all that.”

“_She’s six months old_,” Richie whispered into the phone mic. “_She weighs three pounds_.”

“Studies show that if you give it to them _before_ they develop arthritis or joint problems-”

Richie turned the phone around and used his hand to imitate a yapping mouth.

“_Well why’d you ask!_” Eddie screamed. Richie laughed so hard he dropped his phone. The image bounced around and went black before Richie grabbed it, hauling it back up to continue filming Eddie. He was cracking open a can of anchovies, peeling back the lid and pouring it into a Tupperware. He scooped a small spoonful of oil and anchovies into the dog bowl.

“And here’s the garnish,” Richie explained, apparently bored of trying to get Eddie to explain it all.

Finally, after a thorough stirring of the contents of the miniature dog bowl, Richie panned the camera down to the little angel herself, waiting by her bowl with her mouth lolling out of her skull. Eddie’s expression lightened as he bent down, and he gave her a little head stroke as he set the bowl in its holder. Penelope ignored him and rushed to chomp down her food.

“And there you have it: video _proof_ that my husband-”

“We’re not married-” Eddie grumbled. Bev laughed.

“-loves our _dog_ more than he loves me. I knew we shouldn’t have gotten her so soon after we made things official. They always say, wait a few years, enjoy your time together as a couple before the kids start coming along, you need to know how to love each other separate from the children because eventually they’ll leave and it’ll just be you two alone together-”

“Do you _ever_ fucking shut up?” Eddie shouted. He stood up and went over to their fridge, rummaging around. He came out with a thermos from the freezer—morning vegetable smoothie, maybe?

“It’s true though. You don’t even make me breakfast. But you make _Penny_ breakfast!”

“She doesn’t have thumbs!”

“What if both my thumbs were broken?”

The ghost of a smile tugged at Eddie’s mouth before he caught it and forced it back down. “Then, yes, I’d make you breakfast. But until th- _Richie don’t you fucking dare_!”

“I’m doing it for our love, Eddie!”

“_You fucking psychopath_!”

The camera jostled around for a minute. Bev laughed and set it down to wipe herself and pull her pants up. She should really get back to work. As fun as those two dorks were to watch, she had an actual job that she was utterly fucked at, right now.

“You still love me, don’t you, Penny?” Richie was asking as Bev washed her hands. The camera was low and on Penny, who was already done with her breakfast. She peered up at the camera, then her mouth lolled open in a smile. Richie gagged. “Ugh, anchovy breath,” he muttered. Louder, “You’re the only one in this house I get any love from, Pens! Oh, shit, Eddie, brainstorm: let’s get another one and call him ‘Teller.’”

“Veto.”

“Aww. Anyway, like I was saying: Look at me, Penny. No, Pens, Penny! Come back-!” The camera flopped dramatically on the floor, lined up with the tile in their kitchen and looking out at Penelope’s casually retreating feets. Richie fake-sobbed.

“I’m in a loveless home.”

“Shut up, you big baby, you know I love you.”

“_Eds_!”

The phone bounced around so much it nearly made Bev sick. Just as she was about to close out it settled on a counter, catching only a corner of Eddie and Richie’s bodies as Richie appeared to grab Eddie and pull him in for a hug. The Live chat lit up with hearts. Bev rolled her eyes and tapped the heart button three times, adding her own to the flood. Then she locked her phone and shoved it into her pocket. Okay: back to work!

* * *

_Richie: when r 1 of u losers gonna cum see my show????_

_Eddie: I’ve seen your show five times this month._

_Richie: u dont count u have to cum_

_Richie: ;)_

_Richie: ;)))))))_

_Richie: hey eds_

_Richie: hey eds_

_Richie: did u get it_

_Richie: cum._

_Eddie: I FUCKING GOT IT, TOZIER. NO ONE NEEDS THAT SHIT IN THE GROUP CHAT._

_Bev: Don’t speak for the rest of us, Eddie. *I* need it in the group chat._

_Richie: thx u bev_

_Eddie: “thx” doesn’t even stand for “thank” it’s for “thanks”_

_Richie: so u cumming 2nite_

_Eddie: For fuck’s sake, Richie._

_Richie: *puppy dog eyes*_

_Eddie: Yeah, I just have to come straight from work, I told you._

_Richie: stop trying 2 take this 2 r private chat eddie the losers need 2 witness r love_

_Richie: eds imma keep replying in the group chat if u keep txting me in r chat_

_Richie: y yes eddie I WILL give u a bj be4 the show_

_Eddie: We were NOT talking about that._

_Eddie: Fucking hell, Richie._

_Richie: but srsly whos coming 2 a show besides eddie i need sum1 else’s input_

_Mike: Actually, I was thinking of coming to Chicago in the spring, if you guys have the space to put me up?_

_Richie: uh duh of course we do, dude_

_Eddie: Mike, if you’re in Chicago, you’re staying with us._

_Richie: playing suzie homemaker gets eddie hot_

_Eddie: And I apologize in advanced for everything Richie says and does while you’re here._

_Mike: Yeah, I grew up with him too, I think I know what I’m getting into._

_Bill: When are you going to do a show on the west coast? If you come out to LA you have to let me know, I’ll make sure I’m in town._

_Richie: holy fuck i cant even understand u wo the s-s-s-tutter_

_Bill: You’ll take the time to type out a stutter but you won’t capitalize “I”_

_Eddie: I don’t even understand how he gets away without capitalizing “I”; doesn’t the phone do it for you automatically?_

_Richie: says the guy who just dropped a semicolon into a txt chat u fucking freak_

_Richie: i love u_

_Richie: and you can turn off that setting_

_Richie: i did it the day i got ur digits bc i knew it would drive u crazy_

_Eddie: Wait are you fucking serious._

_Eddie: ARE YOU FUCKING SERIOUS???_

MIKE

#And There Was Only One Bed

Mike set his bag down in Eddie’s bedroom and looked around. Everything was meticulously tidy, but of course it was. He turned and reached out to Eddie in concern. “I don’t want to put you out-”

Eddie shrugged. “You’re not, come on. What’s the point of having a second bedroom if we can’t put up a fellow Loser sometimes?”

Well, sure, but there were two of them in this apartment, so that was the obvious answer to ‘why have a second bedroom?’ But Mike was too polite to push it and knew Eddie would just get mad at him if he questioned his hospitality, so he held up his hands in defeat.

“The place looks great,” Mike told him as they walked back out of Eddie’s room. Not very homey—not in Eddie’s room, at least, though things got better in the common spaces.

Eddie smiled, showing Mike around. Not that there was _much_ to see-Chicago might be a little better than New York, rent-wise, but they weren’t living anywhere excessive. The décor was actually pretty nice, from what Mike could tell (not like he really had an eye for these things). There was Richie’s obvious bachelor-pad, working comedian aesthetic, but it’d been polished and shined to a high gloss with little touches that could only be Eddie. Posters for Richie’s comedy shows hung in tasteful frames on the walls alongside some various awards and albums. The exposed brick walls were homey, and the furniture was all warm burgundy and brown leathers, with throw blankets scattered all over the place. Penny was snoozing on top of one of said blankets, which explained why there were so many still out in late spring.

“I assume this is your influence?” Mike asked, gesturing around. Eddie grinned sheepishly and rubbed the back of his head.

“Eh, it wasn’t _so_ bad…”

“Yes it was, it was a fucking sty,” Richie cut in, emerging from the kitchen. He was smiling fondly at Eddie. “I cleaned for a week straight before he moved in and I still thought he was going to turn around and walk right out when he first saw the place.” He held up a charcuterie plate, ostensibly at Mike but his eyes were focused on Eddie. “I thought we could munch?”

Eddie took in the contents of the plate and their arrangement upon it with LASER-focused attention. He was frowning, hard, but the very corners of his mouth were fighting to twitch upwards. Finally he gave up and smiled his approval. Richie pumped his fist.

“_Yes_! Eddie approved! You know how fucking hard that is, Mike? Do you know how many lessons about which cheeses could be next to which I had to sit through?”

“He didn’t know the difference between soft and hard cheeses,” Eddie cut in. “Soft and hard cheeses! He thought they were all just! Cheese!”

“Eddie exposed all the brick,” Richie explained, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation. “And refinished the fireplace. Have you shown him the bathroom you remodeled yet?”

Eddie shrugged, embarrassed. “It’s not a big deal.”

“He did _grout_ work! Grout! He laid tile!”

“It’s really easy, they sell it all in kits, basically.”

Richie grabbed Eddie in a headlock, ruffling his hair before pressing a kiss to his head. Eddie submitted to the assault good-naturedly before pulling away.

“I never knew I was getting a handy-man,” Richie preened.

“Well, it’s just, if you want something done _right_…” Eddie hedged. He shrugged. “You pick up things. And when in doubt, there’s YouTube.”

“Well, speaking of bathrooms, I need to wash my hands anyway…”

Richie popped up, dragging Eddie with him. “Here, here: use the master bath so I can show off Eddie’s handiwork.”

“Sorry I haven’t gotten around to the guest bathroom yet,” Eddie offered. “It’s serviceable and everything, and don’t worry, I scrubbed the shit out of it-”

“Literally.”

“Gross, Richie—when I first moved in.”

Mike thought it was a little odd that Eddie would have refinished Richie’s bathroom first, before his own, but maybe Eddie was making sure he knew what he was doing before renovating his bathroom. Best to make all those tiny mistakes that would drive Eddie crazy in _Richie’s_ bathroom, where he never had to see them, Mike supposed.

The master bath was, hell, _really_ nice. Penelope trotted around with them like she was giving the grand tour herself. The tiles on the floor were longish planks that looked like weathered old wood, but actually were tile. The backsplash matched, and the wainscoting along the bottom half of the walls gave the whole thing a homey, rustic New England sort of feel. It felt like coastal Maine, is what it felt like: like the beach house none of them had ever experienced but somehow still knew exactly what it looked like if they’d ever gotten an invite to one.

“Check out the shower!” Richie enthused. “It looks like a spa!”

Penelope helpfully walked into the shower then turned around and smiled up at Mike, as if to say “see? Shower! I helped.” The same rustic plank tiles from the floor of the main bathroom made up the walls of the shower, which did give it a kind of Swedish spa feel. Mike made appreciative noises over the whole thing, though he didn’t really know much about home improvement. The most he knew was how to make things work well enough that he didn’t have to pay for a repairman. He hadn’t really been focused on making his house a home while he lived in Derry. Everything in his life up to that point felt like he was on pause, waiting for his life to start. And now it had, and he was all over the world, living how he wanted to live. In contrast, this was apparently what that freedom of choice meant for Richie and Eddie: wainscoting and expensive tiles, and a tiny dog that they pampered like a daughter.

Mike watched Richie enthuse about all the work Eddie had done and Eddie quietly, subtly preen under the compliments even as he tried to minimize his efforts. It was a different shape from Mike’s future, free of constraints, but it was theirs. It fit them—though Mike would never have predicted it beforehand.

* * *

Eddie’s room was so bare that it made Mike uncomfortable to spend much time in there. It felt more like a hotel room than it did an adult man’s bedroom. It might not have struck Mike as odd—it was Richie’s apartment first, Eddie had only lived here a few months, maybe Eddie considered this a temporary arrangement until he got through his divorce—except for the fact that so much of the common areas of the apartment held traces of Eddie, all over them. It was in the tasteful tile backsplash in the kitchen (“All Eddie! In a weekend!”), the freshly painted kitchen cabinets (“He didn’t even _ask_ me.” “It’s the right color for the space.” “Well, _yeah_, but…” “Well there you go.” “You’re such a shit, you see why I love him, right Mikey?”), and the neatly organized entertainment system (“I used to just have my speakers thrown on the ground. But apparently only animals live such a way.” “It’s true.” “Also, Penelope kept chewing on the wires.” “This is also true.”)

Mike sat on a barstool at their kitchen counter (also Eddie’s purchase, apparently) as Eddie and Richie prepared dinner. He’d already bored them to death with pictures from his various trips and now they were brainstorming what else he could see while he was in Chicago besides the must-see tourist traps he had already hit in his first couple days.

“Do you like art?” Richie asked Mike. “The Chicago Art Institute is pretty famous, if you hadn’t heard.”

Eddie wrinkled his nose up as he carried a cutting board full of veg over to the stove. “It’s fine if you don’t. Art’s overrated.”

Richie grinned fondly over at Eddie. It had the look of an old argument, one that they’d rehashed a hundred times. “You can’t just say art sucks. Like. _All_ art is out?”

“I don’t know what they expect me to do when I’m in there,” Eddie shot back. He scraped the veggies into the pan with a knife, tapping it twice with a flourish. They moved past each other in unison, Richie carrying his bowl of carefully concocted sauce to dump over the veggies, then covering the pan with a lid to simmer. Eddie was washing off the cutting board at the sink. 

“It just feels like everyone’s waiting for me to have some big revelation of feelings when I’m standing there-”

“Who’s waiting for you to have feelings?” Richie teased. He was leaning against the counter next to the stove on one arm, watching Eddie prepare the chicken breast. 

“I don’t know. You!”

“I’m not waiting for you to have any revelations of feelings. Not any _more_, at least. Kind of homered with the last one; don’t need to try my luck.”

Eddie shot Richie a look which a stranger might have called ‘annoyed.’ A Loser, however, recognized it as deeply loving. Richie leaned there against his kitchen counter, smile blossoming wide across his face under the force of Eddie’s love.

“Alright, I guess that gets you un-banished from the couch,” Eddie conceded.

Mike snorted when Richie rushed forward to scoop Eddie up in a hug and plant a sloppy, wet kiss to his cheek. Eddie whined in protest, wiping at his cheek. He did wonder if Eddie was serious about that—had Richie been sleeping on the couch while Eddie took Richie’s master bedroom and Mike took his bedroom? But, no: the couch had been made up neatly both mornings Mike had wandered out, Eddie already dressed and leaving for work. That was definitely Eddie’s handiwork, not Richie’s (especially considering Richie slept late every day, thanks to the nature of _his_ work).

Mike scrolled through the Atlas Obscura Chicago page on his phone before showing it to Eddie. “Hey, how about this?”

Eddie’s face darkened and he jerked a finger at Mike. “No. No fucking way. I’ve lived here four months and I’ve managed-”

“Is it the shit statue?” Richie cooed. He skipped over and pumped his fist triumphantly when Mike showed him the entry on his phone. “Yes! Shit statue! Yes! Eddie, now you _have_ to go, Mike is our _guest_-”

“I’m not going, I’m not fucking going, you’ve tried to get me to go every fucking weekend-”

“And the day you finally give in is the day I make an honest man out of you, Edward Kaspbrak, because there’s only one place worthy of a Richie Tozier proposal and it’s Chicago’s shit fountain.”

“Penelope and I are leaving you,” Eddie promised, turning back to the stove. Richie winked dramatically at Mike.

“He says that at least once a week, and they’re both still here.”

Down at their feet, Penelope barked, then smiled. Richie scooped her up and hand-fed her bits of turkey sausage, even as Eddie moaned that she’d spend the rest of the night farting up their bed. Mike laughed, figuring that meant Penelope slept with Eddie, and not Richie. He filed that away to tease Richie about on his next effusive Instagram post over his “daughter.”

BILL

#Gay For Pay

It was a rare coincidence that put any of the Losers who didn’t actively live together in the same city, so when Richie mentioned in the group chat that he was looking at flights to LA for some consultation thing, Bill called him up.

“Yeah, they said I gotta come out, do some shows here so the producers can watch, get a feel for the crowd response, have me jerk them off over lunch or whatever-”

“Gross, Richie,” Bill grumbled.

“Well you know how it is: fucking producers. LA.”

Bill nodded because, okay, yeah: he did kind of know how it was, and it was pretty much how Richie was saying. Still.

“Well I’ve got some script pitch m-meetings in a couple weeks, after we wrap shooting here in V-Vancouver. Want to try and overlap?”

Richie sucked at his teeth, thinking. Bill could hear him tapping at his keyboard, drumming his fingers lightly against it, but not typing. Bill was intimately familiar with the sound as a writer. It nearly threw him into a PTSD flashback of overdue scripts and producers screaming at him.

Richie was right: Bill was familiar with producers. And their particular brand of bullshit.

“Well how many weeks over do you think shooting is gonna run? Because you know they’re not going to be done in two weeks.”

Bill laughed. That was fair. “No more than three. If they do, I have to d-duck out, because I have to have these m-meetings at some point.”

“Alright, but I can’t go four weeks, I’m booking my ticket for three weeks right now, because Eddie’s got this work thing he’s been talking me up to for like a month that I have to go to.”

Bill wondered what kind of ‘work thing’ Eddie would drag his roommate to. But maybe it had something more to do with Richie Tozier, successful stand-up comedian than it did Richie Tozier, roommate of Eddie Kaspbrak.

“Yeah, alright. You don’t have to come to any of my shows though. The material still isn’t worked out yet—wait for the Netflix special, I’ll have it all figured out then.”

Bill laughed. “Oh, and let you say whatever you w-w-want about us without having veto power first? Nice try, Richie. Get me tickets to whatever g-g-gig you’re putting on for these producers.”

“Well okay there, Mr. Hollywood: I’ll get you tickets to my ‘gig.’ But you have to swear yourself to secrecy. No filming my bits and sending it to the other Losers. Otherwise they’ll veto all the bits about them, and I mean, I need to have something left in my act.”

* * *

“So we got a dog, recently. I became a dog dad. Which honestly I never really saw for myself? But it was one of those things I never really thought about growing up in rural Maine in the 80s. Which, maybe you guys think it’s New England so it’s solidly blue or whatever—costal elites, right? Yeah, fuck no. Rural Maine is like butt fuck Alaska for how progressive it can be. So yeah, dog, partner—hate that word, let’s put a pin in that, I’m not a fucking detective—none of that was on the table for an ugly kid in nineteen-eighties BFE, Maine. But, _had_ I ever thought about my future, and _had _I ever imagined it would be with my middle school crush—which it is, by the way, so what the _fuck,_ how’d I swing _that_, we must have used up all the gay in Maine for a hundred miles—and then, take that wildly improbable fantasy even further, that we get a place together and buy a dog together and we’re fucking living that sweet, twenty-first century gay guy dream, I _definitely _never would have thought that _I_, of _all_ people, would have been the crazy, over-protective dog dad??

“No, no: you all are laughing, but you don’t even know the half of why that’s _so fucking funny._ Like yeah yeah, I’m pretty sloppy for a gay, right? And I’ve definitely got the fun uncle vibe going for me, so you’d think I’d be the chill dad, naturally. But that’s because you only know fifty percent of this dog dad couple.

“Okay, so let me tell you about my boyfriend—also hate that term, what are we, thirteen? but what the fuck, am I supposed to call him my ‘lover?’ Yeah, gross, I _agree_—because in order to get why me going full Tiger-mom on our little hellion Penny is so fucking ridiculous I need to paint you a picture of what _he’s _like. So my life-partner—ew, hate it—has always been twenty pounds of hypochondriac in a ten pound bag. Like, you know how back in the eighties all the nerds got a Casio watch and it was the height of uncool-cool? Well he had one of those, expect he wasn’t even a nerd—not in the Weird Science kind of way, at least. No, he just had an overprotective mother and a fucking _pill schedule. _Yeah. So he would program his little Casio watch to go off every time he had to take some med or other. It was like some broke-ass off-off Broadway version of fucking _Rent_ or something up in rural Maine. Except the little dipshit didn’t have AIDS or anything, just a mom that could put Didi Blanchard to shame. He had a _fucking fanny pack _with all his meds in them! He was _thirteen years old,_ I cannot emphasize enough how this was a thirteen-year-old boy. God, and the love of my fucking life, go figure.

“Okay, so. _This _is the asshole I’m co-parenting with, right? So you ask me to project, right, at thirteen, if the two of us get together thirty years down the line and adopt a dog and she’s a monstrous little bitch: which one of us is going to be interviewing doggy daycares and working on a spreadsheet of Chicago area vets who specialize in Pomeranians at three am on their laptop which they didn’t even know _had_ Microsoft Excel until earlier that afternoon because they’d literally never used it _once_ in the decade they’d had it? Yeah the safe money would have been on the twerp with the Casio watch at thirteen-years-old, not on the gangly motherfucker making ‘your mom’ jokes straight into detention, right?! I’m just as surprised at this as anybody, _fuck_ me!”

Bill laughed his ass off with everyone else in the theater—harder, even, because he knew every reference that Richie made and the real humans behind the stories.

Afterwards, after Richie was done wining-and-dining all the Hollywood big shots, he met Bill at some shitty diner and they put away like ten pounds of flapjacks and bacon between them. Richie laughed at Bill’s gentle ribbing over the show and Bill just took in how fucking _happy_ Richie looked: world of difference from when they’d first arrived in Derry for the world’s worst class reunion. Relaxed, at ease, totally himself in his own skin. Defeating an evil clown looked good on him, apparently. Looked good on all of them, for that matter.

“So has Eddie heard your act?” Bill asked as they were sitting there with their hands around two mugs of decaf coffee and both pretending like they weren’t going to buy a slice of that apple pie sitting under glass on the counter.

Richie grinned bashfully, rubbed the back of his neck. “Yeah, yeah. He suffered through me workshopping most the bits with him, you know. We haven’t settled on whether I can use his name or not, hence the running gag about all the stupid epithets I have to choose from for him. He _says_ he doesn’t give a shit, but I know he kinda does. I think maybe he doesn’t want to take all the shit it would get him at the office, you know?”

Well, sure. It’d be something to try and explain to your coworkers that you weren’t gay, your best friend-slash-roommate was just a stand-up comedian with an act to fill and the whole odd-couple dynamic they had going on between them was perfect fodder for comedy.

“It’d probably cramp his style with the ladies,” Bill pointed out. Richie laughed hard at that, which made Bill laugh, too, because there was nothing more satisfying than making a professional comedian laugh.

They ordered two slices of pie. Richie made Bill promise not to tell Eddie, so of course Bill immediately snapped a picture of Richie shoving a heaping forkful into his mouth and sent it to the group chat.

_Richie, what the fuck?? You said you wanted to slim down before the special. The camera adds ten pounds, you know. _

Richie flipped Bill off. “Thanks a lot. You don’t see me snitching you out to the missus, do you?”

Bill shrugged. “I’m a writer; I don’t have to look good. You’re the one whose going Hollywood.”

Richie snorted.

“Do you have any offers? Movie bits, you know?” Bill asked. “Because if you wanted- I’ve got guys. People I could mention your name to.”

Richie waved a hand, for once in his life looking embarrassed. “I’m doing fine, I got plenty of work. Just let this special drop, then I’ll reassess where to go after that, see what sorts of offers come rolling in, you know. I don’t really want to leave Chicago—not after Eddie just moved his whole-ass life out there.”

That was kind of an odd concern—Eddie was a grown adult, even if Richie acted like his stature meant he only counted as like, three-quarters of one. It was considerate of Richie to even think of Eddie when it came to career choices but, they both had to lead their own lives.

Bill opted not to say anything about that, because this was all hypothetical for now anyways. Instead he teased: “Okay, well, just in case word gets out I’m friends with the trendy new comedian when your Netflix special blows up: are you willing to play gay in a movie? I mean, with your act being all that right now…”

Richie laughed, covering his face with his hands. He pulled them back just to scrub at his hair. “Er… yeah, I guess… though maybe I gotta ask Eds, first: get his approval to mack on other dudes.”

Bill laughed hard at that, because that was funny as hell. Richie was a funny guy like that.

* * *

Even though Eddie had laughed through the whole thing, harder than even the rest of them, when the Losers poured backstage to congratulate Richie he fixed his expression into something much more dour. Richie’s gaze predictably went straight to his and paled at the sight of his angry visage. A nervous little giggle erupted from Richie’s throat.

“So what’d everyone think?” Richie asked, but his eyes were only on Eddie.

Eddie scowled up at Richie as the other Losers inundated him with praise. Ben was slinging his arm around Richie’s shoulder and throwing his thumb over at Eddie. “What I want to know is how you got his permission to talk all that shit about Eddie, though?”

Richie laughed nervously, still watching Eddie. Eddie kept on pulling a face like he was mad with Richie. Bill watched them both, mostly curious to see how long Eddie could keep it up.

“Well I don’t use his Christian name. That’s part of the deal.”

Eddie sighed, shaking his head. He ducked his chin before glancing up at Richie. “I guess I eventually have to let you use my name, huh? It’s not like you’re gonna stop talking about me anytime soon, right?”

Richie’s face lit up. “I have exactly zero plans of you not being a part of my life ever again, Eds.”

A smile started to escape the dour corners of Eddie’s mouth. Richie’s grin grew. “We’ll discuss it,” Eddie promised. Judging by Richie’s expression, Eddie had just promised to have and hold him for the rest of his days. Bill snorted at his odd-couple friends. He loved how perfectly mismatched the Losers were for each other.

“You know,” Bill piped up, “you could use my name in your act. I give you blanket permission.”

Richie snorted, him and Eddie exchange some sort of inside joke through just a look.

“Well fuck, Bill, that’s awful gracious of you, but what would the missus say?”

Bill laughed and punched Richie in the shoulder, who winced exaggeratedly and ducked to hide behind Eddie.

“Hey, no fair, no assaulting the talent! Guards!”

“Is that your latest name for your dick?” Eddie snorted, and then immediately regretted it, mouth dropping open as he spun around on Richie.

Richie’s eyes lit up. “Well _now_ it is! Eddie, Eds, Ed-”

“No, _no_ Richie, don’t you _fucking-_”

“Eddie, the _talent-_”

“No it _fucking isn’t, _you don’t even know what to _do_ with it-”

“-needs some _attention_-”

“We both know I’m ‘the talent’ in this relationship,” Eddie hissed.

Richie laughed uproariously and grabbed Eddie, spinning him around and kissing both cheeks. “You know I’m gonna use that now, yeah? Do a whole bit about topping/bottoming but call it ‘the talent’: so who’s ‘the talent’ in your relationship? Oh, really, you’re ‘the audience?’ You think it’d be the taller guy, but sometimes there’s a lot of _talent_ in small packages-”

“Small package, really, you want to complain about the size of my-”

“Never, Eddie my love, never,” Richie promised, swooningly dramatic. He swept Eddie up into another hug and kissed the top of his head. Eddie squirmed away, but his eyes were laughing, even under his scowl.

Bill raised his hand. “Hey so which one pays for dinner, ‘the talent’ or ‘the audience,’ because I’m s-starving.”

BEN

#Fake Dating

The RVSP arrived in the mail barely a week after Ben had sent them out (Ben was on invitations duty, so hath declared Bev. She seemed to take great delight in delegating wedding responsibilities to any responsible parties she could find. Of course, Ben was happy to be of whatever service he could be). Ben snorted to himself as he read the joint _Edward Kaspbrak and Richard Tozier_ return address label. Figured, Eddie would be the first one to return his. Of course, Ben was expecting Richie to be the _last_ one to send back his RSVP, if he ever even did, so that kind of balanced things out.

When he opened it up and went to find the guest list where he could mark off Eddie’s name, Ben was surprised to see Eddie had checked the +1 box and written _Richard Tozier_ into it. Richie had his own invitation—Eddie didn’t have to burn his +1 on him.

Ben fired off a text to Eddie saying as much. A minute later his phone buzzed with Eddie’s reply.

_Why’d you even send us two invitations?_

_So you both could bring someone if you wanted_, Ben explained. Wasn’t that obvious? Just because they lived at the same address didn’t mean they were going to cheat them out of their plus-ones. It might be a little soon for Eddie (so Bev kept saying, at least, though Ben wasn’t sure he agreed with her. Five months was _plenty_ of time), but there was no reason to assume Richie didn’t have a hot date to bring along to a wedding. He was a semi-famous comedian; he must have some easily available options, at least.

Eddie responded with the _HaHa!_ bubble to Ben’s text but didn’t say anything else. Ben shrugged. Well, they had made the offer at least. He set to work digging out the guest list so he could mark them both down as attending, with the non-vegetarian options.

When Bev got home that evening she exclaimed happily when she caught sight of the first RSVP sitting on their kitchen island. Ben listened to her from the other room, smiling to himself when he heard her laugh. A minute later his phone dinged with a message in the group chat.

_Eddie, we invited you two SEPARATELY so you could each bring along dates if you wanted._

A minute later Richie replied _LOOOOOOL_ and nothing else. From the kitchen Bev “Aww’d” sadly at the response. As both their phones dinged again, she walked into the living room to join Ben on the couch. He leaned up to kiss her and she pressed a glass of wine into his hand. He tilted his head curiously.

“To celebrate our first wedding RSVPs!” she explained. Ben smiled helplessly over at her and toasted her. After they both took their obligatory sip Bev grabbed for her phone to read whatever had been sent to the group chat. It was from Eddie:

_Ben already made the same joke this afternoon._

A moment later Richie replied:

_cmon guys: coordinate ur material. wat is this, amateur hr?_

_You spelled out ‘coordinate’ and ‘amateur’ but not ‘your’ or ‘hour’?_ Eddie replied seconds later.

_Bc theirs no universally agreed-upon abbreviation for coordinate or amateur._

_Did you write the wrong ‘there’ on purpose?_

_u get so horny when ur a grammar nazi_

_I’m getting so SOMETHING, Richie_

_o yeh ill get myself ready meet u on the bed in 10_

From their place cuddled up on their couch together Ben and Bev laughed at their friend’s antics.

“They really never stop, huh?” Ben observed. Bev shrugged.

“I think it’s all workshopping for Richie,” she mused. “All these silly fake squabbles with Eddie are basically Richie using Eddie as his sounding board for new material.”

“Yeah, but what does Eddie get out of it?”

Bev laughed, leaning against Ben’s side. “You know how they were always like this. Eddie eats it up, even if he acts like he hates it.”

“I guess it’s good he’s not alone right now,” Ben put in. “After the divorce and everything. He’s got Richie to distract him from all of it.”

“Exactly,” Bev agreed.

Ben glanced down at the group chat where Richie and Eddie had sent each other increasing irate-but-also-lewd texts until abruptly falling silent.

“Still… coming as each other’s plus one’s…”

Bev looked up at him. “What?”

“It’s just…” Ben played with a lock of Bev’s hair. “Well, it’s kind of codependent, right? They’ll never start dating again if they’re attached at the hip.”

“It’s not like they work together,” Bev pointed out. And then, as usual: “And it’s only been four months for Eddie! After being married for over ten years! You have to give him more time.”

“Okay, then what’s Richie’s excuse?”

Bev laughed. “He’s _Richie_? It’s not like he was _ever_ a lady’s man, whether or not he was hanging around with Eddie.”

That was true. What woman could stand the Too Much-ness of Trashmouth? Ben felt a little guilty thinking it, but it was true. Or at least, it explained a lot of things.

Still… “We should make a list of single women at the wedding,” Ben thought out loud. “I mean, Richie’s a lost cause, but I’m sure Eddie wants to get back out there. He just doesn’t know how.”

Bev snorted. “Okay, sure: _you_ play matchmaker: the guy who was hung up on his middle school crush for twenty-seven years.”

_Hey_.

But then Bev was pulling him down into a kiss, and Ben forgave her. For the time being.

* * *

Ben didn’t really notice _anything_ at the wedding that wasn’t Bev and her dress and her eyes and her hair and her smile and her veil…

Ben didn’t really notice anything at his wedding other than his radiant bride. How could he?

But finally, after the ceremony, after all the main dances, after Bev _forced_ him to give her up so she could make some rounds, talk to her friends, dance with Bill and Mike, maybe, _finally_, Ben blinked all the love he had for Bev from his eyes (never, he never could) and looked around to see what his friends were up to.

The first thing he saw was Richie and Eddie slow-dancing together, Eddie chattering away and Richie nodded, stupid smile on his face as he looked down at his friend and listened attentively to whatever nonsense had currently caught his ire. Ben laughed and rolled his eyes. Those two jokesters. Okay, he had had a plan for this, hadn’t he? He took a look around the room, searching for some of his single female friends. There was a decent amount of them in attendance, he just had to send some their way. The nice ones he’d direct to Eddie. The trampier ones (sorry) he’d send to Richie. He actually knew a friend of a friend that might be able to keep up with Richie’s lowbrow humor, if he could just find her…

A couple songs later and Eddie had taken a seat, leaving Richie to boogie unattractively on the dance floor. Ben had finally found the woman he was thinking of and sent her Richie’s way. He slid in alongside Eddie at the Losers table (a place of high honor, of course) and slapped his leg.

“Okay! One down. Alright Eddie: I’ve got two friends for you, you just gotta take your pick. There’s Suzanne, she’s the blonde over there…”

Eddie coughed on his champagne, frowning as he followed Ben’s nod. “Pick? What? One down?”

Ben jerked his head over to Richie, who was laughing and dancing good-naturedly with Rita. “Yeah, I sent Rita over to see what she thought of Richie. I’ve got two friends I think you might like, if-”

Eddie set his champagne down with a hard _thunk_. He glared at Ben.

“Is this a fucking joke?”

Eddie was kind of laughing, but also: kind of not. Ben flinched.

“Uh…?”

“Is it… are you pranking him? Or… this isn’t a test, right? Because trust me, we’re good. I trust Richie. Inexplicably...”

Ben… did not understand.

“I don’t understand.”

Eddie glanced between the dance floor and Ben, gears in his brain slowly turning over.

His mouth fell open.

“Oh my fucking _fuck, _you _morons_! Did… did none of you… Hang on a minute, I need to fix this.”

While Ben was still wondering what the heck _that_ was about, Eddie jumped up, stormed onto the dance floor, and grabbed Richie away from Rita. Eddie talked quickly, one hand chopping at his palm to emphasize whatever very important information he was sharing. A grin started to form on Richie’s face, growing more and more until he was looking over at Ben, mouth splitting his face in some kind of insane joy.

Then, Eddie grabbed the back of Richie’s head and yanked him down for a kiss.

Ben started to laugh, a little… confused. But then they kept kissing. And kissing? Richie’s arms were wrapped around Eddie’s back, holding him close, and Eddie’s hands moved from Richie’s hair to cup his face. Ben glanced around, wondering where the other Losers were, wondering if they were in on the joke. When he looked back Richie and Eddie had stopped kissing, thank good- oh, nope. They dove back in, kissing slower this time, more deliberately. Richie’s hands settled on the small of Eddie’s back. They swayed slightly with the music. Ben looked around desperately for another Loser. Mike was walking over.

“Mike, Mike!!” Ben jumped and grabbed Mike, pointing to Richie and Eddie. Words could _not_ explain.

They had stopped kissing again, but their foreheads were pressed together. They were talking softly. Every once in a while Richie or Eddie would press forward and drop another kiss onto the other one.

That… did _not_ look like a joke.

“What…” Mike glanced around, much as Ben had just been doing. “What’s happening?”

“I was trying to hook Richie or Eddie up with some of my friends, and Eddie got all mad at me, and…” Ben gestured with one hand, flailing. “_That_ started happening?”

Bill strolled over to join them, grinning big. “Hey Ben, where’s the lovel- _WHOA_! Ww-w-what the hell is _that_!”

Eddie reached up to kiss Richie one more time, hand stroking down the side of his face. They said a few more things to each other, then nodded, separating.

(_Finally_. Ben swallowed nervously.)

Then they stormed over to the Losers table. Eddie crossed his arms. Richie was giggling, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

“We need a Losers emergency meeting,” Eddie demanded. “Now.”

RICHIE+EDDIE

#They’re Homosexuals, Harold

“But how did none of you know?”

Eddie stared incredulously at his friends around the table they had commandeered for this emergency meeting of the Losers club. Richie was _still_ laughing, arm slung around the back of Eddie’s chair and a glass of champagne in his hand. He poked Eddie with it and Eddie took a swig absently. Bill spluttered. Bev gasped. Eddie glared at them all some more.

“I just had my tongue down his throat, seriously, guys.”

“And that’s not the worst place he’s had that tongue. Up top!”

“Richie.”

Of course, Richie had the power to kiss Eddie now to make him not mad at him. Which he did, just a quick peck on the cheek. Which worked, because damn it, but it did.

Back to the matter at hand. Eddie jabbed his index finger emphatically down onto the table.

“We’re living together.”

“Yeah but that was like, a month after your divorce,” Stan pointed out.

“Yeah, exactly?” Eddie squinted at him. “Things started _after_ me and Myra split up.”

“But, like: a _month_,” Stan repeated. Patricia slapped his arm excitedly.

“Oh, was it one of those things where you were roommates, but you were harboring a secret crush, and then one day the tension became _unbearable_, or one of you got a little tipsy, and…”

Eddie gesticulated spastically. “What?! No. We moved in together because we were dating!”

“But it was a month,” Stan repeated, feeling like a broken record.

“When you know, you know,” Richie cooed.

“We had joint return address labels,” Eddie pointed out, quite reasonably.

Stan stared at them. “I… I guess I thought that was a joke.”

“We _bought a dog_ together.”

“Adopt don’t shop!” Richie contributed.

“I…” Stan paused. Then he slumped down in his chair. “Okay, uh… I guess I kind of thought that was a joke, too.”

“What the fuck did you just call Penny?”

“Penelope,” Eddie corrected Richie, absently. “Also, yeah, what the fuck? We wouldn’t adopt a dog as a _joke_.”

“I changed my relationship status on Facebook to ‘in a relationship with Edward Kaspbrak,’” Richie pointed out, looking mostly at Bev. She gestured wildly at Eddie.

“Yeah, but Eddie didn’t change his!” she countered.

“Because I’m not a twelve-year-old girl?” Eddie scoffed.

“Thanks babe,” Richie replied.

“Anytime.”

“Besides, I had to approve that,” Eddie told Bev. “Do you think I’d approve that just as a joke?”

“I… hadn’t thought about that…” Bev thought slowly.

“Wait, Bev, you follow me on Instagram: I post Stories of Eddie’s bedhead. Like. All the time.”

Eddie turned slowly to glare at Richie. “I thought you said you didn’t post those.”

“Shhhhhhhh,” Richie hushed him, not even turning to look.

Now it was Bev’s turn to splutter helplessly. “I thought they were jokes!”

“How the fuck did you think I was getting pictures of Eddie asleep in bed?”

The Losers all kind of glanced at each other, and avoided glancing at Eddie. He threw his hands up.

“Guys, there’s no way Richie would have been able to _sneak into my bedroom_ and take pictures of my face.”

“Not that often, at least,” Richie pointed out.

“_Oh_,” Mike interjected, suddenly. He snapped his fingers. “I thought it was _weird_ that Eddie’s bedroom had nothing in it.”

“That was our guest room!” Eddie shouted, maybe too loudly. Richie pressed the champagne flute into his hands and Eddie took the hint, swallowing it in a go.

Mike shrugged. “I just figured you were being, you know: a good host.”

“And, what: sleeping in the same bed as my roommate so you didn’t have to take the couch?”

“I thought you were on the couch!”

Eddie looked back at Richie for some help, but his only response was to hush him mock-soothingly and pat his shoulder. Eddie turned back to Mike.

“The couch wasn’t made up as a bed. I never… There were mornings you were up before me!”

“I thought you just… were getting ready?”

“I came out of Richie’s room in sweatpants!”

“And no shirt,” Richie added, leaning forward to throw in an eyebrow wiggle.

Mike shrugged again, a touch more helpless this time. “…Yeah?”

Richie poked at Mike. “We kissed in front of you.”

Eddie gasped, turning to Mike with his finger poking out to match Richie’s. “That’s right! We literally kissed in front of you!”

The Losers looked to Mike, who waved his hands in front of him to defend himself. “No, no, hey, wait a minute. The only kiss I ever saw was Richie planting a fat one on your cheek, Eddie. It looked like a joke!”

“You’re all homophobes,” Richie announced to the table at large. He slapped the table. “Disappointed, that’s what I am! With every one of you.”

Eddie snickered, unable to help it, and of course Richie’s head whipped towards the noise, eyes lit up. Eddie let him have a smile. Just one. Didn’t want Richie to get too big a head.

Richie turned to Bill. “You saw my act. You saw my _entire_ act, about how Eddie’s the love of my life and-”

“Hey, hey, everyone else s-s-saw your act, too!” Bill pointed out. He waved his finger to encompass the entire table of Eddie’s utterly moronic friends. “Everyone else saw the same jokes I did and thought they were j-j-just jokes!”

“You asked me if Eddie would be cool with me kissing other dudes,” Richie shot back. Eddie twisted around, eyes wide, but Richie rubbed a soothing hand through his hair before he could make hay about it. “Like, for a movie, it was about acting. I said I had to get your approval first, don’t worry.”

“N-n-no, that’s how it went!” Bill protested. “I asked if you’d be cool playing g-g-ay,” he reminded Richie, “and _you_ said you’d have to check with Eddie to see if he’d be okay with you m-m-m-m-m… kissing other guys.”

Everyone turned to look at Bill. He waved his hands at the table at large. “I thought it was a joke! Just like everyone else!”

“In my act.” Richie started, holding his hand up. Slowly he ticked off the list, finger by finger: “I call Eddie: my lover, my boyfriend, my partner, my heartsong, the wind beneath my wings, my spouse, my husband, my fiancé, and my butt-buddy.”

“In one version of it you called yourself my cum-dumpster but I don’t remember when I made you take that out so they might not have seen that one…” Eddie reminded him quietly.

“Thanks babe.” Without looking Richie held his other hand up and Eddie dutifully high-fived it.

“Yeah but it was… funny…” Bill muttered, trailing off.

Eddie narrowed his eyes at him. “Us being together is funny? Is our relationship a fucking joke to you, Denbrough?”

“It’s a joke to me,” Richie pointed out, snickering.

“You’re not going to be laughing tonight, you keep that shit up,” Eddie shot back. Richie whined and pressed his chin to Eddie’s shoulder, which he ignored.

He kinda liked it, actually. He never really minded Richie’s PDAs, within reason, and in front of the Losers, who apparently _needed_ to see the proof, it felt affirmational, in a weird way. Performative but like… speaking truth, or something? Kind of like Richie’s act, actually.

Eddie snapped his fingers and pointed at Ben. “_That’s_ why you sent us two invitations.”

Ben looked between both of them, like a deer suddenly caught in the headlights he’d been gleefully watching his friend deers be caught in all evening. “Uh… Well. Bev didn’t know you were together, either!”

“Yeah hang on, let’s go back to Bev for a second,” Richie put in. He lifted his chin off Eddie’s shoulder so he could swivel his whole head at Bev. “We literally _sexted_ in the group chat.”

“You sexted, I didn’t fucking sext,” Eddie mumbled, chugging at his champagne. Richie passed a fresh flute into his hand.

“Not in the group chat,” Richie reminded him with a leer.

Well. Now wasn’t the time or place to discuss _that_.

There’s a _reason_ it wasn’t in the group chat.

“Bev?” Richie prompted.

Bev shoved a finger at every one of the other Losers. “Everyone else was in that group chat! Why’s it come down to me?”

“Because you’re the only one who kept up with the group chat as much as I did,” Richie pointed out, which was pretty reasonable, for Richie. Eddie nudged him with his shoulder and nodded at Bev in support of his man. Richie slung his arm over Eddie’s shoulder.

“I just that it was more of the bit! Richie, you have flirty jokes with _all_ the Losers. You’ve joked about me to Ben, or told Ben how hot he is-”

“He is fucking hot,” Richie reminded her.

Eddie nodded his head. I mean. Fucking true.

Ben spluttered and leaned back in his chair.

“Hey guys, I mean, I just thought you were joking around-”

Richie snorted and jerked his thumb at Bev. “You telling me Ben’s not hot as shit now?”

Eddie frowned over at Richie. Okay, yeah. But he didn’t need to keep going on about it…

Bev shrugged helplessly. “Of course he is! But… of course he is! Anyone with _eyes_ can see that!”

“Thank… you?” Ben said, looking like he thought maybe he should feel insulted. Bev shushed him with a pat to his arm.

Stan finally waved his hands, quieting the table.

“Okay, okay. So.” He looked up at Richie and Eddie. “You. And you. Are dating.”

“_Yes_!” Eddie shouted, in unison with Richie’s “Fuck yeah!”

Stan nodded. “Okay. And you’ve been together since basically Eddie’s divorce?”

Eddie winced. “Er, technically since I was separated, we… the divorce took a while to finalize, you know…”

“No one thinks you’re an adulterer, babe; you didn’t lay a hand on my dick until you were moved out of your marital home. Your good name remains un-besmirched.”

Eddie glared at him. It was a sore point, for him. Myra, when he told her he was moving to Chicago before their divorce was even final, wanted to know why. Knew that he fucking hated Chicago with the passion only a New Yorker could have for all other major metropolises. And he hadn’t wanted to lie to her, already felt bad enough for leaving her (even though he agreed to pay alimony, even though he let her keep the apartment) that he told her. He was moving to Chicago because he had a new significant other and they lived there. And then she wanted to know who it was. When it had started. He couldn’t say ‘it started twenty-seven years ago I’m just a dumb fuck and also a bastard clown stole our memories.’ But he did say it was a childhood friend he’d reconnected with. He admitted they were moving in together. He tried to reassure Myra that no, no, he _never_ cheated on her, no, they _never_ got together while he and Myra were living together.

But then Myra had caught on to the carefully neutral pronouns Eddie was using. How Eddie would switch to “significant other” every time Myra said “girlfriend.” Myra had realized, Myra had flipped out, Myra had screamed that now she had to get an AIDS test, that Eddie was sick, that…

Eddie had never touched Richie while he and Myra were together; not in any way other than perfectly innocent friendship. But that didn’t mean he didn’t still feel some irrational guilt over the whole thing.

Stan was shrugging and moving on; he didn’t care. None of the Losers cared, or at least, they all seemed to take Richie’s word on the matter (which was completely insane, why would they? But yet, they were). Stan was counting backwards on his fingers.

“So what was that, sometime in January, February?”

“March,” Richie offered, snuggled up against Eddie’s side. “Our anniversary is March sixth. Eddie’s birthday.”

Bev leaned forward, sneaky grin stealing across her face. “_Which_ anniversary is it, though? First time you declared your feelings? First date? First kiss? First…”

“Yes, yes, yes, and _yesss_,” Richie ticked off on his fingers. “Though technically that last one carried over into _my_ birthday. It was a double-whammy.” He fluttered his eyes at Eddie. “In more ways than one.”

_Yeah: you cried in more ways than one_, Eddie thought to himself, but he wouldn’t say it out loud. Richie was sensitive about how much he cried during sex, and Eddie kind of wanted to let him keep that between themselves. It made the whole thing a lot easier for Eddie: the gay thing, the leaving his wife thing, starting over again, all of it. Knowing that Richie felt so much for him, that Richie did have a depth of vulnerability that he let Eddie see in those most intimate moments… Eddie clung to that as reassurance that he was on the right path. That he hadn’t just blown up his entire life for some weird, gay mid-life crisis.

There was also the fact that Eddie loved Richie and their life and their evil bitch of a dog beyond reason, every day. He couldn’t believe he could be so happy.

“And now it’s August,” Stan pointed out.

Eddie squinted at him. “Yeah? What’s your point?”

Stan grinned and leaned forward. Eddie leaned sharply back. Oh no. What-

“So when’s the wedding?”

Fuck, _fuck_. Richie whooped and grabbed Eddie’s head, sighing manfully.

“Well I just don’t _know_, I keep _asking_ but this wild _bachelor_ won’t let me tie him down-!”

“No, no-” Eddie struggled to break out of Richie’s headlock. Richie’s accent was devolving into full _Steel Magnolias_.

“He won’t let me make an honest man out of him, and I said, Edward Kaspbrak, I am _not_ getting any younger and my biological clock is _ticking_-”

“Missed opportunity to do a Marisa Tomei impression,” Eddie pointed out. Richie looked _stricken_. Eddie used his distraction to turn and swear at Stan. “Anyway, how about you shut the fuck up and mind your own fucking business?”

Stan giggled like he had _won,_ the fucking asshole, and okay, maybe he had.

And maybe Eddie had a fucking ring on lay-away, and was just waiting to finish paying it off next month before he proposed. And maybe Eddie had it all fucking planned out, and it was going to be romantic as _hell_, if certain _Loser friends_ of his would _shut the fuck up and mind their own fucking business_.

If Richie proposed to him before Eddie got to it, all because of Stan planting the idea in his head, Eddie was _so_ not naming him Godfather to their next puppy. So help him God.

* * *

That night, Richie quietly pushed the hotel bathroom door open and stood with his back to the bathroom so he could snap the perfect selfie. He lined it up _just_ right so you could see Eddie’s bare back scrubbing away but left the rest up to your imagination (he was too afraid of Eddie’s wrath to push it further than that). Eddie was singing softly to himself, terrible off-key Journey because he was a basic-ass eighties bitch and Richie hadn’t Stockholm Syndromed culture into him yet. He was drunk, but “E. coli doesn’t get _drunk_ and _fuck off_ just because I am, _Richie_,” and Richie wanted to rim him tonight, so Eddie had kissed him, a _lot_, and then stumbled into the shower, leaving Richie hard and wanting.

_about 2 go down on eddie for like a solid hr bc we gay,_ Richie typed, sending the picture to the group chat. _ps: this is not a joke_

_pps: previous ps also was not a joke_

_ppps: also not a joke_

_pppps: id snap a pic of me doing it but i want THIS asshole 2 marry me 1 day, so i probably cant share pix of HIS asshole w all u losers_

After a few minutes Mike—the only single Loser left of the group, at this point, and thusly probably the only Loser not getting down and dirty right this minute—replied:

_I’m showing him this in the morning and you’ll never get laid again, Tozier_

_small price 2 pay 2 CONVINCE U MORONS I LOVE HIS DICK_ Richie furiously typed back.

Then the shower turned off, and Richie hucked his phone across the room. Time to show his not-fake, not-a-joke, most definitely serious love-of-his-fucking life how seriously, exactly, Richie took their relationship.


End file.
